Back in his own country Chakra had devoted himself to the business at hand, and years later, when Karima had become president, he had chosen Simon Chakra to command the Tempalan military. As far as Chakra had been concerned there were no others as capable, and he had accepted the position with pride. But that pride had started to fade when Chakra became aware of Karima’s weakness—being Tempai—and he allowed his filial loyalty to blur the line between duty to his president and the honor of tribe and country.
Tempala had to be saved from Karima and his kind. They were ready to sell out the country to foreigners, to let in the American military and the greedy U.S. businessmen. If that was allowed to happen, Tempala would become just another U.S. satellite. Chakra wouldn’t let that happen. He had to save Tempala from its own folly. If that meant a campaign of enmity with Karima as the target, then so be it. Chakra’s alliance with the rebel force had seemed an easy option. Their forces, combined with the army personnel who were on Chakra’s team, raised his strength.
Now Chakra was not so sure about the marriage of convenience. The rebels were proving to be an uncontrollable force. Going their own way without consultation and following their own agenda was creating problems. First the kidnapping of Karima’s children—a clever enough ploy—had gone wrong when the slave traders had attacked the rebel group holding them. The rebels had been caught unaware, most of the kidnapping team killed and the children taken by the slavers. That had been disastrous enough. Then the rebel leaders had decided to make a point by setting off an explosive device in the city. A bad mistake as far as Chakra was concerned. Stupid and wasteful.
And now there was this damned American running free in the bush causing all kinds of complications.
It was something Chakra didn’t need. He wanted things to be run on military lines. Ordered, planned, with all contingencies considered before anything was done. It wasn’t happening. It was time for him to regain control. He had to take hold of the reins again. Quickly. Before the whole matter descended into total chaos.
He would have to conduct the operation himself, which meant stepping out of the shadows and risking being identified with the rebels. That was unfortunate. He had hoped to stay out of sight for as long as possible, maintaining his faith with Karima. That closeness allowed him to learn what was happening within Karima’s circle. If he had to take the risk of discovery this early in the game, then that was how it would have to be.
10
The rebel base consisted of a square, flat-roofed building in the center of a low, walled enclosure. The mud-brick construction gleamed dirty white in the morning sun. Parked against the east wall, partially covered by a camouflage net, was a Hummer, painted in olive drab.
Bolan’s attention was caught by the two rebels on guard outside the building, the communications satellite dish fixed to the roof—and the motionless figure of a man hanging limply against the ropes holding him to the wooden sides of a beat-up old truck.
The soldier stayed in position for a time, studying the layout and watching to see if there were any other guards. The building itself butted against the east wall, with no more than a few feet of space between building and wall, so there was no likelihood of anyone being concealed there. The compound was open and he had a clear field of vision across the whole area. If there were any others present they were inside the building.
Bolan eased back behind the boulder that concealed him. He was working out his next move. The scene below him presented the Executioner with a number of options. Despite the distance and the blood that seemed to cover the bound man, Bolan had recognized Christopher Jomo. The policeman looked to be in a bad way. If his injuries were as severe as they appeared from Bolan’s standpoint, there was not going to be a great deal Bolan could do for him, no matter how much he wanted to help. However the soldier decided to handle the situation, his first task would be to dispose of the two guards. Then there was the unknown factor. How many—if any—were inside the building? That would reveal itself only when Bolan took on the two guards.
He ran a swift weapons check, making sure each was fully loaded and ready, slinging the Uzi across his chest for easy access. Making his way back to the truck he had left a few hundred yards away, he climbed in and fired up the motor. Bolan dropped it into gear, eased the truck out of the brush and drove around to the west side of the base. He approached the open gate down the long slope that led to it and coasted in that direction.
The guard closest to the gate moved to watch the ACMAT as it came into sight. He recognized the vehicle, leaning forward to stare at the windshield to identify the driver. The dust-streaked glass obscured Bolan’s image, giving him a degree of cover. He leaned as far back in the seat as he could, keeping himself away from the screen.
The guard said something to his partner and the second guard started across the compound to join him.
Bolan hung on for as long as he could, then rammed his foot hard on the gas pedal. The truck picked up speed. The Executioner held the wheel steady with his left hand, pulling the strap-hung Uzi into position with his right.
The guards saw the truck hurtling at them and moved to get out of the way.
Mack Bolan stepped on to the running board, leaned out, then let go. He landed on his feet, caught his balance then executed a shoulder roll. His roll ended when he came up against the base of the wall. Dust from the passing truck boiled around him as Bolan pushed to his feet, the Uzi on track.
The truck struck the opening with its left front fender, smashing through the clay brick construction. It ran on for a few yards before the engine stalled and the vehicle came to a juddering stop.
The first guard skirted the truck, his SA-80 rifle held at hip level. He peered through the dust cloud as he moved around the collapsed section of the wall, seeking the driver of the truck.
Bolan picked out the guard’s outline as the man stepped around the wall. He caught the guard with a short burst that punched into the man’s chest, throwing him back inside the compound.
The thud of boots on the hard earth told the Executioner the second guard was closing on the truck. Bolan switched sides, moving around the rear of the vehicle. He ran the length of the ACMAT toward the front, catching the second guard unaware. Bolan hit him with another sharp burst, the 9 mm slugs chewing into his body, severing the rebel’s spine. The man went down in a loose sprawl, crying out in pain. Bolan laced him with another burst, blowing away the back of the man’s skull, silencing him for good.
Bolan cut across the compound, heading directly for the open door of the building. He was ten feet away when an armed man burst through, an autopistol in his right hand. Bolan fired the moment he laid eyes on the man. His Uzi threw a scattering of 9 mm rounds across the man’s torso, spinning him and bouncing him off the wall. He crashed to the ground at the base of the wall, kicking in agony as his body reacted to the ravaging effects of the bullets. Bolan fired again as he closed in on the man, the body jerking under the impact, then falling still.
Ejecting the magazine, Bolan reversed it and locked in the fresh one. He cocked the weapon, flattened against the outside wall for a moment before ducking and stepping inside.
The interior comprised a single room. Bolan took in scant furniture and a communications setup at the far end.
He picked up a dark shape off to his right, bending to pick up a weapon leaning against the wall. Bolan raked him with a burst from the Uzi. The impact lifted the hardman and tossed him over the low cot he was standing beside. The cot overturned and fell across the dying rebel.
A shot crashed out. Bolan heard the slug whack into the wall behind him, feeling chunks of clay strike his shoulders. He took evasive action, going down on one knee, and returned fire. The shadowy figure on the far side of the room flew backward, becoming entangled with a chair and fell hard, blood coursing from his chest and throat. He lay for a while choking on blood and sucking in air through his shredded windpipe.
Bolan stayed alert, scanning the room until h
e was satisfied he was alone. He moved from man to man, checking for signs of life. There were none. He picked up the dropped weapons and threw them in a corner after pulling the magazines. Then he turned and stepped outside, feeling the heat of the sun as he crossed to the old truck—and the figure bound to it.
He heard the harsh buzzing of flies. As he walked around the rear of the truck and came in sight of the bound man, Bolan felt his stomach tighten. He had been right.
It was Jomo.
Or what was left of him.
What Bolan had not been able to see from his previous position overlooking the site were the brutal wounds inflicted on Jomo’s body. The mass of congealed blood on the ground around the body attested to the savagery inflicted on the man. His head bore the marks of a prolonged beating. Crusted blood caked his face. His mouth hung open to reveal lacerated gums and broken teeth. One eye had been partially pushed from its socket. That was minor compared to the butchery carried out on the policeman’s torso and limbs. A heavy bladed knife, most probably a panga, had been used to chop and slash at Jomo’s body, opening deep wounds. A bulge of coiled intestine showed through a deep slash in his stomach. Both hands had been severed at the wrists and his feet cut off at the ankles. The amputated pieces lay on the ground in a crusted pool of dark blood. Jomo had been left to die slowly, bleeding to death from the terrible wounds.
Mack Bolan had seen the worst atrocities man was capable of inflicting on his own species. But his years in the killing grounds had not hardened him to where he was incapable of reacting when he saw such things. In the heat of battle, the Executioner never once stooped to the kind of deliberate cruelty that had been inflicted on Christopher Jomo. He had only known Jomo for a short time, but in that time the policeman had shown his courage and resourcefulness as he and Bolan pursued their enemies. The man had proved to be a warrior, a good and honest man who had been prepared to go that extra mile for something he believed in.
Bolan spent a little time with his friend in mourning for a fallen comrade and silently promised Jomo that he would go that extra mile for both of them.
There would be no turning back.
There would be a closure.
And for the men behind this terrible slaughter there would be no mercy.
Bolan recalled Jomo’s reaction to the killing of the children in the bomb explosion back in Tempala City. No mercy.
Bolan took his knife and cut the ropes holding Jomo to the truck. He lowered the body to the ground. Searching the rear of the truck he found some canvas and cut a section out of it to cover Jomo.
This done, the soldier went back inside the building and crossed to the communication gear. He could hear the soft, muted sound of a small generator outside the rear of the building. A thick cable snaked through a small window, connected to the rear of the com set, providing power. The equipment was of French manufacture. It had a digital setup. Bolan quickly scanned the control panel. He clicked the readout to the Stony Man satellite configuration and waited as the roof dish aligned itself. He put on the headset, adjusting the microphone, and as soon as his transmission status appeared Bolan made his call.
HUNTINGTON WETHERS SNAPPED out of his moment of quiet reflection when he picked up Bolan’s call. He responded, acknowledging he was receiving loud and clear.
“What can we do for you, Striker?”
“Has there been a satellite scan of the area? Bear was going to run one for me. I need a location.”
Kurtzman’s deep voice cut in through the transmission. “Where have you been, Striker? We were starting to think you’d gone AWOL.”
“Out here? A man would have to be really desperate to quit in this place. Slight operational problems, but I’m getting back on track.”
“Listen up,” Kurtzman said. “We ran a sweep yesterday. Had some initial high cloud interference but we got through that. Striker, that is one empty chunk of real estate. We worked on what you gave us and we hit lucky near the end of the pass. We spotted a group heading due west. We squeezed the magnification until we could make out a bunch of women, men and kids being pushed along by about nine, maybe ten armed guys. I couldn’t swear to it but I’ll stick my neck out and say that the bunch under guard were in chains. Striker, you got any charts or maps handy? I can give you some coordinates.”
“Give me a minute. There’s a mess of stuff here.”
Kurtzman waited until Bolan came back on the line.
“Go ahead.”
While Kurtzman relayed the map references through to Bolan, Hal Brognola entered the room, Barbara Price on his heels. They listened to the conversation between Kurtzman and Bolan.
“What I need is a rendezvous point,” Bolan said. “There’s a hell of a coastline to choose from.”
Kurtzman beckoned to Wethers. “Take a look at the images we recorded,” he said. “Didn’t we see a small village right on the beach? Looked deserted to me. But it was in some bay.”
“I’ll check it out,” Wethers responded.
Brognola put on a spare headset. “Striker, how’s it looking out there? You identified any of the players?”
“No proof other than a hunch and the information the Bear came up with on Simon Chakra. It appears he’s running with a suspect crowd.”
“Hector Campos?”
“The same.”
“We just had some intel on Campos. Seems he took a flight out of Cuba a couple of days ago. Be interesting if he turns up in Tempala.”
“I’ve been having some run-ins with a covert military unit out here. These guys may be part of the Tempala military operating as a separate unit. They play hard and don’t take prisoners.”
“Striker, you okay?” Price asked through her headset, sensing something in Bolan’s voice.
“I just lost an ally. A good man who didn’t deserve to die the way he did.”
Price glanced at the others, then spoke again. Her tone was low, the words directed at Bolan alone. “Hey, you go easy there, Striker. People here want to know you’re hanging on.”
“Thanks. I’m fine.”
Kurtzman cleared his throat.
“Got that location for you, Striker.”
“Ready when you are.”
As Wethers read the information Bolan marked the coordinates on the map. “Anything else I should know about?”
“We spotted a small airfield. Looks like a dirt landing strip. Couple of small huts. Couple of vehicles and an aircraft,” Kurtzman said.
“Could you identify it?”
“We ran it through the system and the database picked it out as an EMB-312 Tucano. That any help?”
“I had a run-in with one earlier. Scratched its pride a little before it left. Give me the location of that base.”
“It isn’t far off your line of travel, Striker.” Kurtzman paused. “You thinking of making a house call?”
“Let’s say I’ll sleep better if it can’t come after me again.”
Kurtzman chuckled. “Oh, we came up zero on the cell phone. Can’t find anything. So I guess we cancel that out.”
“Thanks for that,” Bolan said. “Too much to expect every inquiry to pay off.”
MACK BOLAN SHUT DOWN the transmission and placed the headset on the table. He studied the map and the location points he’d pencilled in. The coordinates Wethers had given him ran roughly in the direction Jomo had outlined to the Executioner. They also fell in line with what the wounded rebel told him. If the slavers stayed on course they would reach the river Jomo had mentioned and that would take them all the way to the ocean. Satisfied, he folded the map and placed it in one of the zippered pockets of his blacksuit. Turning from the table he checked out the room. He located a military-style knapsack and tipped the contents on the floor, going through them, selecting and discarding. Moving around the room Bolan picked up a few cans of field rations and some dry crackers. He found water in plastic bottles floating in a large clay pot suspended from the ceiling by one of the windows. He broke the seal on one and took a c
autious drink. The water was surprisingly cool. He dropped a number of the bottles in the knapsack. Crossing the room he spotted a pair of heavy-duty binoculars hanging by a cord from a wooden peg in the wall. Bolan reached up and took the field glasses down, checking them. They were battered and well used, but functional. He draped them around his neck as he moved on.
In a corner he found a small supply of munitions. Loaded magazines for SA-80 rifles, grenades and a box of 9 mm cartridges. Bolan turned and walked back outside to where the Hummer was parked against the east wall of the compound. He dragged off the camou net and sat in the driver’s seat. There was a radio communications unit fitted between the front seats. Bolan stared at it for a moment, then decided he would use it only when the situation really called for it. Once he broke his silence any transmission could be picked up by the opposition. When he tried the starter the Hummer burst into life. He checked the fuel gauge and saw it was full. There were extra cans of diesel fuel strapped in the rear of the vehicle. There was a roof-mounted 7.62 mm machine gun in place. Extra boxes of ammunition for the machine gun were stacked on the floor inside the vehicle. Bolan drove across the compound and parked at the door to the building. He spent the next few minutes loading as much of the munitions as he thought necessary. He returned to the truck he had arrived in and picked up Jomo’s SA-80 carbine and placed it in the Hummer. The knapsack he had filled went on the floor of the passenger side of the vehicle. Back inside the building, Bolan put the radio out of action, making sure that no one would be able to repair the thing in a hurry, if at all.
Returning to the Hummer he turned it around, halting briefly where Christopher Jomo’s body lay under the canvas cover.
“Thanks, friend,” he said quietly, drove out through the gate and turned the Hummer west.
Shadow Search Page 9